Seeing is Believing
by Selah25
Summary: After burying his brother, Sam begins a life of suicidal missions, reckless behavior, and isolation. Soon realizing that he cannot do things alone, he enlists the help of an old flame, rekindles with Bobby, and begins to see things that cannot be.
1. Chapter 1

The thumping of the rear tire, jarred Sam's senses, and as he peeled off to the side of the barren highway, the Impala hummed softly as it idled. Sam pushed the door open, but didn't step out. He rested his hand on the sleek interior of the door and shook his head. It was no longer Dean's door, no longer his seat, no longer his car. It was now, more than ever, an antique, a family heirloom, and Sam was the proprietor. He felt nothing as he hefted his haggard, lean, body out of the car; popped open the trunk, released the hidden compartment, and rummaged through the various ammunition and artillery for the spare tire. Leave it to Dean, to hide the spare tire, alongside the shotguns and Sam's knife collection. How subtle, Sam sneered. He rolled the spare, it spun unevenly as it landed with a rubbery thump on the tarred shoulder, and echoed down the black hole that was the highway. He gripped the tire iron in his left hand, ready to align it with the first nut and bolt, when his memories took him back to four months prior, when Dean handed him over the tools, and taught him how to fix the Metallicar.

"Righty-tighty," Sam mumbled Dean's instructions as he sparred with the tire, "lefty-loosey."

Sam struggled with the first bolt, but relished when it released and spun easily into his hand. Sam couldn't help but chuckle, but quickly halted, upon hearing such a foreign sound. He rarely laughed. Hell, he never smiled; never since the day that he buried his brother. Sam went on a suicidal rampage, pillaging every town, vanquishing every demon, battling vampires, suturing up his battle wounds, drinking more, and sleeping less. He cut all ties to his former life, including Bobby. His cell phone rang constantly, his server was full of emails, neither of which he responded to. He was alone; Dean had prepared him for everything that he would encounter, but he hadn't prepared him fully for pulling on his shoestrings, and bucking up. Sam cowboyed up, as Dean would have said, but if Dean could only see him now; well, Sam knew, he wouldn't recognize him if they passed on the streets.

"Jerk," Sam mumbled, anticipating a snarky 'Bitch', from the shadows, but only the cicadas, mocked him from the trees above.

Tossing the flat tire to the side of the road, Sam started up the Impala and drove onward. The sparse lights on the highway shone on a rusted sign, _Ellis Grove Springs_, and he took a hard right off the exit. He hadn't been there in years, four as a matter of fact, and he had to face it sooner or later; no matter how hard he tried, he hated being alone. His last onslaught rendered him bloody and beaten, and despite his hardest endeavors to stitch himself up, his lanky arms, couldn't reach certain spots. A bullet had nicked him in the left shoulder blade after it sliced through a vampire and bounced off the building's steel enforced doors. He had been driving for hours, and now, after fixing that tire, he was starting to lose feeling in his left arm. Sam drove for awhile, heading past the cemetery, and into the small, abandoned town, looking for the familiar street signs. Making a few quick turns, he found the house. No lights were on. He scanned the clock in the Impala and realized it was three in the morning. Still, he picked up his cell, tapped in the numbers, and waited for the voice on the other end.

"Someone better be dying," the groggy female's voice sounded through the phone. Sam caught his breath. He released it, but found no words. She sat up in bed, her body still rigger from sleep, but found the late night pranks, amusing.

"Listen, Vader," she switched the phone to her other ear, "while I find the deep breathing a bit titillating, it's creepy nonetheless, so either speak, or hang up."

Sam inhaled and exhaled, which only caused the woman on the other end to slam her receiver back into the cradle. "Stupid," he chastised himself and redialed. She picked up on the first ring and berated him,

"Keep this up and I'm calling the cops."

"Kenzie," Sam uttered her name, "cops are the last thing I need right now."

"Sam?" Kenzie slid her eye guard to her forehead, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the dim light from the moon.

"You don't call for months and now you wake me up in the middle of the God damn night," she sputtered, "you've got some nerve."

"I got something else too," Sam didn't want to fight, "so are you going to let me in or what?"

"Let you in?" she jumped out of bed and headed to the front door. Sure enough, he was standing on her stoop, his cell phone resting on his good shoulder, while he leant up against the side of the door.

"You look like hell," she spoke into the phone and realized how stupid it was that they were still conversing from either side of the doorway. She hung up the cordless, unhitched the lock, and opened the door.

"You hung up on me," Sam held his cell closed; a look of mischief in his eyes, glimmered and faded.

"Twice," she noticed him flinch as he reached for his duffel and immediately recognized the gaping hole in the back of his tattered shirt.

"Jesus, Sam," she flipped the hallway light on, "let's get you into the bathroom."

"I've got a needle and some peroxide that have your name on 'em."

"I'd do it myself," Sam offered, "but even I can't reach this."

"I'm surprised you didn't try," Kenzie pointed to the toilet seat, that she had just slammed down, and ordered him to sit. She peeled off his shirt and examined the wound.

"I take that back," she swallowed some bile, "you were stupid enough to try."

Sam didn't say a word. He knew he had a lot to say to her, but everything he could muster up, wound up sounding moot. She'd find a way to twist his words so far around, that he'd never win. A simple apology wouldn't do either. So he sat there as she gathered her first aid supplies and straddled the sink to get a good leg up on Sam. She first cleansed the area with the alcohol swabs then prepared him for the peroxide rinse. His wound festered and bubbled, indicative of an infection, and until it ran clean, she patted at it with gauze. After awhile, she used a pair of sterilized tweezers to remove the bits of gravel that were stuck inside. Lucky for him, the bullet only grazed his shoulder; luckier for her, that she didn't have to play Operation and remove one. She sucked at Operation. She stitched him up, gently covering her work with a patch of gauze.

"Good as new," she let her fingers drape across his bare back for a few seconds too long, and she retracted them just as quickly.

"Thanks," Sam mumbled. Kenzie watched as Sam stood up and turned to face her, his abdomen, full of healed wounds and self stitched masterpieces. He noticed the color drain from her face and he reached for her cheek.

"It's not as bad as it looks," his eyes pleaded, "really."

"So where you running off to now?" She pulled her face out of his grasp. She didn't expect the answer she received.

"That's just it," Sam shrugged, "I know I should continue on doing what I'm suppose to do, but…I…just can't do it…not alone, not anymore."

Kenzie let out a puff of breath and turned to wash her hands of Sam's blood. She must've been scrubbing for awhile, because Sam reached over and turned the faucet off. He handed her a towel and watched her. She hadn't seen him since they buried Dean; she had known his whereabouts, but he was always one step ahead of her. She just didn't think he'd wind up on her doorstep. Not now; not like this.

"You were never alone, Sam," she finally spoke, "you just chose to be."

"I chose wrong," Sam gritted his teeth, "I know that now."

"You never were the one to choose wrong over right, Sam," Kenzie bit back tears, "I don't know what to say."

She walked out of the bathroom and headed to her bedroom; she knew he would follow. She thought back to their prior time together, how they fit perfectly together, how her body cradled neatly into his, how she longed for that again. The Sam she knew, the Winchester she loved, had died four months ago, along with Dean, and the shell of the man, standing in her bedroom doorway, was all that remained. No longer a man, but a tired, frightened boy, who was more terrified of spending the night, than he was of fighting off demons. Kenzie succumbed to the lost boy image and scooted over in her bed. Sam inched in close to her, pulling her into him. She was so warm against his chilled skin. She snuggled into the arch of his chest, her back, pressed neatly into him, his head rested upon hers. He whispered into her ear, his voice drowsy with sleepless nights, "I can't stand to be alone; it frightens me."

"I scare myself," he breathing became labored.

"Rest, Sam, rest," Kenzie ran her fingers up and down his forearm until he finally fell asleep.

She refused to fall asleep; afraid that Sam was nothing more than a ghost haunting her dreams.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Kenzie assumed Sam was sound asleep; his breathing was more shallow and his grip on her relaxed some. She was about to doze off when Sam mumbled a few words, slurring them into one drawn out sentence. She turned her body so she was no longer facing the wall and noticed Sam's eyelids fluttering, he was on the cusp of REM sleep. She stroked his cheek and asked him to repeat what he had said, thinking perhaps he was just entering a state of dream. His eyelids fluttered open; wide eyed pupils stared out to her in the dark.

"I saw him," he whispered.

"Who?" Kenzie asked, confused. "Who'd you see, Sam?"

"Dean." His name dropped like a brick; the only sounds that could be heard were the crickets outside her window and the ceiling fan that stuttered when it made its third turn.

"Sam," Kenzie reached for him, "you're having a nightmare; it's over now."

"_No_," Sam pushed away from her, putting an emphasis on the word, "I saw him a few days ago."

"Clear as day," Sam ran a hand through his hair, "I know it was him."

Kenzie didn't argue with him; there wasn't much to say. Having released what had been scaring him for the past few days came as a catharsis to Sam. He pulled himself back towards her, nudged her neck, and mumbled again,

"He's alive."

Staying awake proved harder than she thought; Sam's constant grumbling and his erratic leg thrashing, sent Kenzie into a fit of discomfort. He had his arms wrapped tightly around her and the more he struggled with his fitful sleep, the more she felt suffocated. She was battling with what Sam had revealed to her. He had _seen_ Dean. Had he really? Could the deprivation of sleep over the back months caused him to see things that his heart longed for, and his mind was just creative enough to imagine? Any professional would answer with a resolute 'yes', but what was her excuse?

What was her justification for having the same hallucinations? Seeing Dean a week prior had caused her to take action. Calling up an old friend of the Winchesters, Bobby, a skeptic once, believed in all too many supernatural phenomena. Bobby too had seen Dean. For only a few minutes, it was as if Dean was waiting for him, but when Bobby rounded the corner of his house, Dean was no longer there. He straggled to the garage, its door slightly ajar, but nobody, not even a mouse, scattered when he entered.

Similar to Bobby's experience, Kenzie had been driving along the highway where they had buried Dean, an old abandoned field of lush greens, a solitary white picket cross signifying a lone soldier's grave, shone bright as the sun reflected off of it. She drove by occasionally, more so on the days, she knew Sam was not going to reach out to her, but on this day, a figure was standing in the middle of the field, his black button down, flapped in a breeze that only surrounded him, his body facing the cross.

She had pulled up her '76 Camaro and sat idling, wondering who the stranger was; until he turned to face her, his steel blue eyes pierced through her windshield. He turned away and stood sentry at the cross as if he didn't belong. She pulled out her zoom lens and snapped a few quick shots, uploaded them into her zip drive, and emailed Bobby. If anyone could disprove what was standing right in front of her, it was him. Her cell phone went off not even a millisecond later; Bobby's gruff voice was talking a mile a minute. He was instructing her to drive away, it could be Lilith luring her in, or even a Trickster, but Kenzie couldn't help but be mesmerized by the mere audacity that was Dean. Standing there in all his humanity was Dean Winchester.

Thrusting open her car door, its hinges creaked, sending a flock of crows to disperse to a tree to her left. The sound of the birds disturbed not only her, but sent doppelganger Dean fleeing down the field. She began to call out to him, but the more she called, the further he ran, until he was no longer in her sights. She hadn't realized she was running until she had to stop to catch her breath, Bobby's voice hoarse and scratching over the airwaves.

"He…just…ran." She exhaled into the phone, her breath erratic.

"If it's Dean," Bobby's voice lacked conviction, "he may be disoriented."

"You don't know what or who you're getting back from Hell."

"We have to call Sam," Kenzie pleaded, but was shot down by Bobby's stern voice.

"Call all you want, that boy ain't goin' to answer."

"You and I both know it," he sighed, "don't go settin' yourself up for more disappointment."

"Everyday's a disappointment, Bobby," Kenzie regained her stability and headed back to her car. Glancing down at the cross, she noticed the earth had shifted, dirt and grass were uprooted.

"Then again," she smiled sifting the earth in her hands, "today's a new day."

Rehashing prior events, Kenzie spent the past week driving past the old gravesite, hoping for another glimmer of Dean. Unfortunately, she came up empty handed. Perhaps it _was_ the Trickster playing her like a fiddle. He had done it to Sam; why not her?

Lara "Kenzie" Kensington had grown up in Salem, Massachusetts, the daughter of world renowned occultist and archeologist, Patrick Kensington, and his haughty philanthropic wife, Cassandra. Lara had spent her childhood traveling the world with her parents as they pursued various continents for riches, uncovering ancient artifacts, and giving their only daughter, an education any two parents could hope to give onto their child. She was tutored by her mother on the cultures of the world while she tagged along with her father, excavating ruins and tombs. They settled for Salem, for its mysterious culture, its welcoming people, and its idealistic ways.

She was nineteen when she came home on a crisp Autumn afternoon on college break, to a home, dark, and uninviting. A strange car, was sitting alongside the curb across the street, its sleek exterior, shimmered in the fading sunlight. She would find out later, that it belonged to John Winchester and his two sons.

Glass shattering and gunshots could be heard from inside her house and before she could get her hand on the doorknob, the front door swung open, a man, barreled down the stairs, followed by two young boys. One of them, slightly taller than the other, noticed Kenzie on the porch and called out to his father,

"Hey Dad," he forked a finger in her direction, "she's right here."

"Who…who are you?" she hollered and attempted to run into her house, but was pulled back by John Winchester. She could see two fallen bodies at the foot of the spiral staircase; their faces distorted in pain, the color drained from their skin.

"Dad!" she fought off the intruder, "Mom!"

"Easy, easy, now girl," John tried to assuage her, "there ain't nothing you can do for them now."

"You murdered them," she elbowed John in the stomach; a puff of bated breath escaped his lungs as he doubled over and watched as she ran back into the house.

"Oof," he grinned, "girl's got more muscle than you, Sammy boy."

She fell to her knees at her parents' bodies and blinked back tears as she tried hard to swallow the bile that was rising from the pit of her stomach. Gunshots, her mind seemed to be speaking to her, luring her back to reality, there were gunshots. But why, why, weren't their bodies riddled with them? The wall to her right was spotted with three bullets, bedded in the foundation; away from the bodies. The wooden floor was wet with water and the air smelled of sulfur and garlic. There wasn't any blood or wounds, visible, until she bent over her mother to retrieve the amulet from around her neck. Two puncture wounds in her mother's jugular caused Kenzie to falter back. Luckily for her, someone was there to catch her.

"It'll be okay," Sam coaxed her up, "you don't need to see this."

"What's that she got, Sammy?" the older brother nodded to her curled up fist.

"Some sort of amulet," he shrugged, "heirloom, maybe?"

"She…she got this from Romania," Kenzie managed to mutter, "while we were on an excavation dig with my father."

"You thinkin' what I'm thinkin'," Dean spoke to his father out of the corner of his mouth.

"He came back for the amulet," John nodded, "the son of a bitch."

"Who?" Kenzie pushed Sam off of her, "Who the hell would do this?"

The Winchesters stood around her in a protective circle and ushered her to have a seat. That day was the mark of her supernatural birth; the day she found out, Dracula, Lord of the Night, The Devil himself, was not just a movie monster, who charmed his way into a woman's bed and drank deep of her purity, but was in fact real; authentic as her fingerprints and now _dead_, thanks to the men that had taken her in as part of their family.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

It was nearing nine a.m. and Kenzie couldn't sleep any longer, not with Sam breathing down her neck. The sun was blaring into her room and she cursed herself for not shutting the blinds. She maneuvered her way out of Sam's grasp and slid off the bed; Sam stirred ever so slightly but soon spread out like a starfish, taking up all the space on her cushiony full sized bed. She glanced at him, sleeping more soundly, and grimaced at the spittle that was slowly beginning to hang from his mouth.

"If he wasn't so cute," she mumbled to herself, "I'd find that utterly disgusting."

Sighing to herself, she shuffled down the hall to the bathroom, removed her amber t-shirt and navy blue shorts, tossed her undergarments to the hamper, and turned on the shower. Soon, spirals of smoldering mist were forming around her petite frame, the surge of the shower, pulsated against her freckled skin.

She wanted to get out of the house before Sam had arisen, so she made haste in the shower, left her hair damp after roughly towel drying it, threw on a pair of worn jeans, an emerald Henley, tied up her boots, and topped it off with her plaid jacket with the faux fur collar. She grabbed her favorite turquoise skull cap and grabbed her car keys. She grabbed her laptop, her camera with the extended lens, and opened the door. She was one foot out, when she realized Sam had parked the Impala behind hers. She tiptoed back into the house, searched high and low for the keys, and found them in Sam's back pocket on the jeans he had thrown to her floor. Hanging hers back on the rack by the front door, she sealed it softly, and walked to the infamous car.

"Hey there, sugar," she caressed the top, "let's go for a ride."

The car sputtered a bit, almost as if it didn't want Kenzie behind the wheel, but she whispered a few choice words, and it smoothed over; probably thinking it was Dean behind the wheel, the way she threw out a few choice F bombs. She reversed out of her driveway onto the dirt road that led away from her small cottage. She never settled for a big house, not after her parents died; she became a hermit, living with the bare necessities, usually on the outskirts of a remote town. She didn't like to be bothered; therefore, no one bothered her. Setting up her laptop on the passenger seat of the car, she headed back to the spot where she saw Dean. If it _was_ him and he was 'appearing' to them, what harm could come from doing some extra leg work?

She drove, her hands steering the wheel at 10 and 2, the very same spot where Dean himself had taken the helm of this classic beauty. She didn't dare touch the radio station, Led Zeppelin's 'Dazed and Confused' was blaring from the speakers. Kenzie tapped away to the beat, rolled down the window, and let the crisp breeze of September, weave in and out of her hair, causing it to air dry into thick waves of molasses. She pulled up alongside the abandoned grocery store that had been ransacked a few days prior and noticed that the sign on the door read, 'Gone Fishing'. She rolled her eyes knowing damn well there wasn't a pond, lake, or water source for miles in none of the four directions. The windows to the store were blown to shards which proved easy enough to add another B and E to her record, not that she was keeping score on her transgressions; then again, no one, authoritative or not, would notice. This area of town was abandoned for a reason; it may have appeared beautiful with its lush green acres that stretched for miles unending, but the economy was greener and the people of the town, well, couldn't afford to set up shop longer than a year.

Kenzie took snap shots of the entrance way. Dirt laden footprints led her to the far wall where the coolers were. She scanned the coolers, their fluorescent lights flickered on and off, and she wondered when the last time the owners had paid the bill was. Not thinking twice, she grabbed a bottle of water, threw it into her bag, and snapped a few shots of the store. She sidestepped the footprints as she walked along the aisles of the store, noticed bags of chips and packaged sweets tossed and strewn to the floor. She then found herself pulled toward the cash register, which was indeed open, and of course, empty. A few coins were left, as if the perpetrator could have cared. The prints smudged and settled alongside the racks of skin magazines, Sports Illustrated, and a few teeny bopper rags. If she hadn't known better, the choices of what was taken, and the way the magazines were upturned, she would swear that Dean had been there. As if on cue, a strong gale of wind sent the wind chimes at the entrance to stir up an eerie melody. Kenzie turned; the hair on the back of her neck, stood on end.

Across the field, kneeling down, his elbows resting on his knees, was Dean. She was sure of it; so sure, that she ran to the Impala, started her up, blared the music, which just now happened to be AC/DC's 'If You Want Blood, You've Got It', hoping that he would turn to face her. Hearing the music, Dean turned on his heels, and spotted his car. Kenzie couldn't help but notice the flicker of recognition on his face and the obscene lust he had for the car. No sooner had she taken a shot, however, his face turned sour. His eyebrows furrowed and he jutted his stubborn jaw.

"Damn it," she berated herself, "I shouldn't be driving this car."

She watched as his mouth moved and she tried to read his lips. Something about, 'Why's there a chick behind the wheel'? No, that couldn't be right, could it? Then again, if that was Dean, why hadn't he recognized her as well as the car? She shouted his name, pointing to herself, and then shouted her name, as if that would spark some sort of faint recognition as well. He faced her, a smirk appearing on his face, and she snapped the shot. He waited as did she, then turned on his heels and faced the white cross.

"Huh," she tilted her head, "could it be that simple?"

She punched the numbers to Bobby's phone and told him to get his ass to his computer,

"You're going to want to see this," she practically gushed, "classic Winchester."

Unbeknownst to her, she didn't only send Bobby the picture of Dean and the shop's mess; she sent it to Sam's email as well. While she was talking to Bobby as he fumbled with the computer, cursing the day they ever got him acclimated to modern technology, her cell beeped, indicating she had another call. She scanned the caller ID and it read, 'Sam'.

"Sleep well?" she tried her best to not sound apprehensive, but his voice, shrieked in high pitched falsetto,

"Where are you," he shouted, "better yet, where's my brother?"

"What are you hollering about," she kept her eye on the field and Dean while she scanned through the pictures on her laptop.

"That picture you just sent me," Sam growled, "of my brother."

"Damn it," Kenzie scrolled up and noticed she CC'd the email to Sam. "Now you're checking your mail?"

"Well, it's been awhile," Sam was irritated, "thought I'd catch up."

"Hold on, Sam," Kenzie forgot she had Bobby on the other line and switched over.

"Bobby?" she apologized, "I may have made a slight mistake."

"Whatchu' talkin' about girl?" Bobby's gruff voice seemed more agitated than usual. Her phone was beeping, and Sam was probably cursing her on the other end.

"Hold that thought, Bobby," she switched over, yet again.

"Sam, I…" she managed to get out before Sam cut her off, tearing into her.

"Last night, that crap you spewed about it all being a nightmare," she could picture him pacing the living room, "that it was over", again she could sense he was throwing a hand up the air, "what the hell was that?"

"Sam!" she shouted over the music, "Please, let me explain," she offered, not realizing that Dean had spun his head around and was staring at her as she spoke into her cell. His eyes brimmed with tears at the recognition of his brother's name. She couldn't help but sit frozen in the car seat, her finger snapping away photos that were immediately uploading to her laptop. She shot him as he inched his way further from the cross and closer to the edge of the field; she shot his face, the pure exhaustion, dire tragedy, and the pain, oh God, the pain.

"Sam," she swallowed as she sent him more photos of his brother, "Sam, please, there's something not right about this."

"Of course it isn't _right,_" he hissed, "he's supposed to be dead!"

Tired of switching back and forth, she put both Bobby and Sam on speaker and they had a three way going on. She snickered to herself, 'three way'; Dean would have loved to hear that.

"Get outta there, darlin'," Bobby was urging her as Sam was urging her to do the same.

"You shouldn't have gone alone," he chided her.

"I'm not a child, Samuel Winchester," she growled, "I can handle my own."

"That's what I thought too," Sam sighed and Bobby intervened.

"Boy!" he hollered, "All you had to do was pick up the goddamned phone."

"Not now, Bobby," Sam was frustrated and sounded more like Dean than ever.

"I'm on my way back," Kenzie put the car in reverse and fishtailed it out of there, before Dean could get a foot closer.

"He sure as Hell isn't dead," she sped off, Dean's image faded in the rearview, "that's for damn sure."

Back at Kenzie's, Sam fell to his laptop, scrolling through the random shots she had taken of his brother; the extreme close ups of his face, a face that wasn't blemished nor beaten, but the eyes, his eyes were a mass of anguish. The last shot he couldn't help but stare at; it was as if he was staring into Dean's eyes and all that was staring back, was a lost soul. Dean was screaming on the inside and Sam was weeping on the outside.

"We'll get to the bottom of this," Sam swore to the picture, "I'm bringing you back home."

Kenzie pulled into her driveway, craning her neck to make sure she wasn't being followed, but anyone, or anything that resembled that dead brother of the man that was inside her house. She packed up all her stuff and hurried into the cottage, half expecting Sam to be standing guard, ready to fire at her more insults. Instead, he was sitting on her couch, eating a sandwich and drinking a beer. The television was on, but unfortunately for him, she didn't buy into the whole cable thing. He must have been watching the local news and weather for who knows how long.

"Sam?" she half whispered his name, but felt better when he returned her greeting with a smile.

"Sorry 'bout before," he shrugged, "I had no right to do that."

"No," she plopped herself down on the cushion beside him, pulled her knees into her chest and rested her head on his shoulder, "you had every right."

"I mean, I'm the one out there snapping photos of Dean," she creased her brow, "while you've been searching for a way to get him back."

"You made every attempt to reach out to me, Kenz," Sam slid his plate over to her, "I on the other hand, went MIA."

"Eat," he nudged her, "I made it."

She turned a sallow shade of green and pushed the sandwich away,

"No offense, Sam, but I'm not that hungry."

"Suit yourself," he bit into the sandwich and swallowed it within two bites, "so," he spoke between mouthfuls, "do you think it's some sick joke a demon is playing on us, or what?"

"The likely hood of the three of us seeing him," she started, but Sam choked and gave her a look that registered shock.

"Three?"

"Yeah," she shied away from him, "Bobby's been seeing him too."

"For how long?" Sam asked, pulling his laptop in closer and typing feverishly into it.

"Umm, I'd say about a couple of weeks, maybe less," she sat upright and looked over his shoulder,

"What are you doing?"

"Looking up weather charts since the first time you say you two saw Dean and comparing them to the fist time I saw him."

"When was that," she pointed to the screen, "exactly?"

"About a week or two ago," he slapped his hands to his thighs, "same time as this spike in the atmosphere."

"Storms coincide with the dead?"

"Believe me," Sam snorted, "you'd be amazed at the coincidences that be storms and what are in actuality a demon uprising."

"So does that mean," she couldn't say it, but Sam had no trouble with completing her sentence.

"If he's demonic?" he shrugged, but then sat back and closed his eyes, remembering back to how Dean acted hours before the Hell Hounds had come for him. How he was able to see demons before they even knew, how he was able to sense danger, and so on.

"Nah," Sam shook his head, shuddering at the thought that _he_ was the one Lilith had wanted, because 'something evil lay dormant in him', but he shook that thought and his head, "I think he's just trapped."

"So how do we free him?" she inquired, ready to bring his brother back, if it meant it would bring Sam back as well.

"I have no clue." Sam sighed, "Get Bobby out here and we'll figure it out together."


	4. Chapter 4

_Sorry for the short chapter, but I had to get this out. I don't intend to disappoint. Please review. 3_

Chapter 4

It took Bobby all night and half the next day to make it to Kenzie's little bungalow, that skirted the town. He parked his rusty, loyal, truck outside, parallel to Dean's Impala. It took him quite a few tries to step out of the truck, knowing Sam, half the duo, that he had taken under his wing, years ago, was sitting inside the very house that he was parked outside of, playing with his rusty colored mustache. He ambled toward the back of the truck, hefted two heavy duffels and swung them and himself towards the front door. He didn't know why he bothered knocking; which was an outright lie, he knew damn well. Sam was on the other side of that door. The same boy that turned into a loner, angered and distant, but no more a boy, than he was now a man; a man no longer a child.

The door swung open, its hinges in need of a good oiling, and Bobby stood as upright as he could as Sam stood on the opposite side of the threshold. Sam nodded, his right hand holding tightly on the door's thin frame for support.

"Bobby."

Bobby stared straight through Sam, almost passed him, and caught Kenzie's eye. Her deep set, soulful eyes, pleaded with Bobby to play nice. The ill-fated words he had spun round and round in his brain on the drive over dissipated into a gruff, heartfelt, drivel of words.

"Damn good to see you, boy," he dropped his bags on the steps and took Sam into his burly grasp. Sam choked on his words, as Bobby wrung him tight. He patted Bobby's plaid laden back.

"You too, Bobby, you too."

Kenzie sidled up along side the two grown men and nudged Bobby's side. She cocked her head to the left and smiled, offering her hands out as she spoke,

"Got anymore lovin' left in ya, old man?"

"Hmph," he reached over and pulled her into the already made hug, "I ain't old, I'm just seasoned."

Chuckling through the stale air and the awkward moments that rolled right off their backs, Kenzie showed Bobby into her small living room and Sam handed him a cold brew. While Bobby had been driving all night, Sam and Kenzie had been brainstorming on ways to approach the _Dean situation._

"We've been thinking," Sam tossed a pad of lined paper towards Bobby, his chicken scratch of notes and references, landed in Bobby's lap.

"From what I've gathered, along with Kenzie's help," he nodded her way, "we've got two scenarios."

"One," Kenzie stepped in, "what we've been seeing isn't Dean at all, but an echo, not far off from a death echo, but a representation of what was."

"In other words," Bobby liked to cut to the chase, "something or someone's been messin' with our memories of Dean and luring us out into the open, like bait?"

"Yeah," Kenzie scratched at her head, "pretty much."

"What else you got?" Bobby wasn't having that. "In five or less words, this time." Kenzie scrunched her nose at Bobby who just shrugged her off.

"Well," Sam pointed at the second page of his notes, "in less than five words…_Dean's back_."

"Back, boy?" Bobby took a swig of his beer, "In what sense?"

"Mortal, alive, tangible," Sam trailed off as Bobby interrupted.

"Then explain to me how we've all been see'n Dean, in different times 'n places?"

"Only one way to find out," Kenzie pulled on her cap and stood up, "we gather our resources, I pick up a few supplies, and we go in, first thing at dusk."

"What supplies you talkin' about?" Bobby was intrigued.

"There's a feed store downtown, they sell salt by the bagfuls."

"And what we have planned," Sam smiled, his thin lips pursed together, "we're gonna need a lot."


	5. Chapter 5

Again, sorry this is short. I'm having some family issues right now. My brain isn't capable of writing as much as i love to. Please read and review. It means the world to me!

Chapter 5

After Kenzie's departure to the feed store, Sam and Bobby sat in awkward, yet comforting silence for a few minutes, as they read and reread what Kenzie and Sam had planned. Bobby took off his baseball cap and scratched at his temple, long and hard, failing to take his eyes off the paper. Once in awhile, however, his eyes would dart over to Sam on the other couch, wondering why it took him so damn long to find his way back. Outside, there was a slight breeze that was spiraling the fall leaves in a makeshift tornado, and the screen door to the back of the house, swung back and forth. For about the billionth time the door swung and connected with the frame, Bobby exhaled, dramatically, and caught Sam's eye.

"Sometimes you can be real stubborn, ya know that?" Bobby growled. Kenzie wasn't around to keep Bobby at bay and he was going to take full advantage of the moment.

"So I've been told," Sam gnawed at his bottom lip, knowing very well, that he was going to get a 'talkin' to' from Bobby.

"Either you were stupid enough to get into some sort'a trouble that you can't muster a way out of," Bobby began, "or something out there spooked the bejesus out'a ya."

Sam just squirmed in his seat, feeling as if he was being admonished like a child, caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Only this time, it wasn't John holding a belt, it was Bobby. He didn't dare look Bobby in the eyes which made the older man more annoyed than ever.

"Damn it, boy!" Bobby growled, "Look at me when I'm talkin' to you!"

"What do you want from me, Bobby?" A frustrated Sam looked up at his aged friend and raised his hands as he shrugged his shoulders.

"I want answers," Bobby lowered his voice, a slight tremble in his lip caught Sam off guard. "I want to know where the hell you've been and what you've got caught up in."

Sam threw his notepad to the floor and began to pace back and forth. Bobby watched and listened as Sam relayed his actions for the past four months. Sam told him how he went off the radar, hunting demons, luring them, setting up traps, killing those who wouldn't assist him, and sending those back to Hell, when they did.

"No matter what I did, or what I found," Sam sighed, "it was never enough."

"I couldn't find a way to bring him back," his voice quaked, "and just when I thought I reached the end of the road, he just _appeared_."

"I thought I was delusional," Sam finally faced Bobby, "I hadn't slept in weeks, ate even less, and I did things, horrible things, things that would make Dean think less of me."

"Son, you didn't…" Bobby couldn't bring himself to finish, but the dead silence that lingered between them, spoke louder than any words could have.

"I tried," Sam looked disgusted, "I summoned a Cross Roads demon and you know what she said?"

Bobby just stared at him, waiting for him to finish, longing to hear his voice, no matter what Sam had to say. Bobby pulled at his mustache and took a swig of his beer. He didn't have to pry, Sam continued speaking.

"Said the Winchesters ran the gamut too many times," Sam laughed, "who were we to think we could wrap our hands around another 'Get outta Hell free' card?" Sam plopped down on the couch, his eyes, dark, his voice, sinister.

"So I shot her."

"Every damn one of them, I sent back to Hell, the very place I couldn't rid of Dean."

"Yeah," Bobby managed a small gurgle of a laugh, "you'd think they would'a sent him back up here by now."

"Too close of quarters for all his smart ass, wise crackin', manure spittin' nonsense."

"Yeah," Sam's lips curled into half a smile, "you'd think."

For a split second, Bobby and Sam caught each other's eyes, and a lump formed in their throats. Could it be just that? Did Dean cause them so much trouble down in the fiery pits of Hell that they reneged on their deal? Would they give him up so easily; after trying so desperately to take him down? Shaking it off, they both knew it wasn't that simple. Whatever or whomever brought Dean back wasn't going to make it that straightforward for them.

"You saw him?" Bobby asked, "Ain't that what you said?"

"Just for a brief flash, after I was finished burning down a vampire's nest along with its brood, there was this chill in the air, and out by the car, you know, _his_ car, I saw him."

"He nodded at me, Bobby," Sam exhaled, "almost as if to say 'Good job, Sammy'."

"And then he was gone," Sam rubbed at his eyes, "and I drove straight here."

"I was losing a bit of blood," Sam almost excused what he saw, "like I said, I was out of it."

"Well, I haven't lost any blood," Bobby's tone was serious, "yeah, I haven't slept much, worryin'll do that to a man," Sam dodged Bobby's reprimanding eyes, "but I saw your dang brother too."

"Kenzie said," Sam nodded, "which still doesn't explain why he just doesn't come forward."

"Why does he run from you, run from her, and just appear to me?"

"Why did that boy do half of the things he ever did, Sam?" Bobby shrugged as if to say, who knew.

The clock on the wall behind Sam's lanky, yet muscular, stature, ticked and chimed as it rang out five distinct times, indicating how many hours had passed since Kenzie had left for the feed store. Knowing it shouldn't have taken her so long to get into the middle of town and back, Sam wondered where she could have been all this time. If he had bothered to even look, he would have found her sitting, idle, in her racing striped Camaro, watching him pace back and forth. She had to give those two their space, their well needed, venting session. She needed them to be aware of their situation if what they were about to do, was going to work out in their best interests.


	6. Chapter 6

**_*Dean's Perspective*_**

It was about a year ago when the precious Impala needed a jump start to its battery as Dean and Sam were leaving the Twilight Motel after rendezvousing with some malicious, mysterious, demon. The car sputtered and putted its way onto the side of the highway, its radio and lights flickering on and off, indicative of a battery going bad. Exhausted and fatigued as they both were, both sustaining a few bumps and bruises, and with Dean's concussed head throbbing like a vein that can't sustain too much blood, it was understandable that this was neither the time, nor the place. Dean slammed his hands on the steering wheel, quickly caressing it and apologizing to his girl; he couldn't help but curse her as well.

"After all the work and love I've put into you," he grumbled as he pushed open the driver's side door, "you'd think just once, you'd repay me with a night of smooth riding."

"Dean," Sam shook his head, wincing at the pain in his neck, "it's just a car."

Sam, too late to rescind his misspoken words, grimaced at his older brother's scornful face. Dean raised his head, slowly, almost dramatically, his left eye swollen half shut, and glared over the hood of said car.

"Just a car, Sam?" he growled, his voice raising bar, "Just a car!"

"You know how many times we'd be humpin' it through God knows where, if it weren't for _this car_," he pointed to it, roughly.

"I know, Dean," Sam attempted to apologize, but Dean cut him off.

"You know nothing about _her_, nothing about the mechanics to a lasting relationship, you know _nothing_."

"Dean, really?" Sam couldn't help but curl his lip into a small smile.

"You know nothing," Dean nodded, "therefore you shut your cake hole or I'll do it for you."

Sam mimicked sliding a zipper across his lips, turning an imaginary key, and tossed the proverbial key, at Dean's chest. Dean pocketed the _key_ and ambled his way to the trunk. Taking out the jumper cables, he walked to the front end of his car, and opened the hood.

"Now Sammy, do me a favor, walk to that light over there and show them passing cars a little leg, would you?"

"You have got to be kidding me!" Sam threw up his hands.

Dean stoically looked over towards his brother and circled a finger round his face, "Does this look like my jokey face?"

Huffing and humping it like Dean said to do, Sam detoured to the intersection, and hailed an oncoming car. It was as if fate had stepped in and staring Sam down with its high beams was a musty, beat up, local town towing truck. It pulled to an unsteady halt along side the edge of the road. The driver reached over and manually rolled down the window of the passenger's side and called out,

"Car trouble?" his grisly voice echoed into the dead night air.

"Um, yeah," Sam rustled his hair at the pure luck of it all and pointed to the Impala a few feet ahead, "think you could give us a jump?"

"Sure thing," the tow truck operator smiled, his front teeth were cracked and yellowed. Sam tried hard to look past them. The tow truck eased up along side the stationary car and the man jumped out and grabbed the jumper cables from his flatbed. The man chuckled and tsked the two men as he slowly dragged his left foot, limping towards Dean who still had half his body leant over into the hood of his precious car.

"You two boys sure are lucky I showed up when I did," he released the hatch of his truck and hooked up the jumper cables and traced the counterparts to the battery of the Impala.

Dean looked at the man suspiciously, never trusting of anyone until he got a good look in their eyes, but this man, unfortunately, had only one good eye spare. His right one was glazed over from cataracts, while his left one, twitched back and forth as he worked at the scene.

"Lucky?" Dean made his way over to the driver's seat, ready to start up the car as their mysterious savior did the same.

"Yeah," the man started up his engine and hollered out to Dean, "been stories of hijackings along this here highway. Happen every other night, I suppose."

Dean gave Sam a look that could only have said, _is this guy for real_, and Sam just shrugged as he watched Dean crank the key and turn the engine over. Not once, but twice, until loud, rock, music blasted out the stereo. Dean kissed the steering wheel and hooted. His baby was alive. Dean jumped out of the car to thank the driver of the tow truck, but was taken by surprise when the man pulled out a taser and shot Dean straight in the chest. The voltage alone would have woken the dead, one of Dean's last thoughts as he watched the man, turn his body towards an oncoming Sam, who was wielding a shotgun. A blast went off, but Sam missed, the man hid behind the tow truck. Sam hunched over Dean's body and attempted to remove the metal spikes that lodged themselves into his chest. Another current of electricity raced through Dean's chest, bringing the unsuspecting Sam down with him. The rest of Dean's memory was a blur.

_**Then he woke up**_.

His breath, ragged, his heart, jumpstarted, thumped loudly in his chest, but he was blind. No, no, he couldn't have been blind, he was encased in something. He clawed his fingers along the narrow sides of his surroundings and splinters dug into his raw tipped fingers. Cursing, he reached into his jean pocket and pulled out a Zippo lighter, flicked it, not once, but twice, and held it up. He was buried, in a pine, box, nonetheless. Dean's heart rate became erratic, as he clawed at the ceiling of the box, punching it, kicking at the wooden casket, slowly smiling as he thanked whoever the idiot was for burying him in something easily destructible. The wooden casket began to splinter apart, dirt fell into Dean's eyes, and he got a mouthful of earth and fresh air. He clawed his way out, of the box, first, then the unimaginable six feet of dirt that was caked on top of the casket. His hands, raw, bloodied, and dirty, pushed through the top layer of sod and with all the strength he could muster, he pulled himself out. He crawled to his knees and caught his breath, slowing his heart down, he looked at his surroundings. An ordinary cross was staring at him and he immediately looked to the right of it; no cross. He then looked to the left; no cross there, either. He was alone. Where was his brother? What did that crazed sonofabitch tow truck driver do with his brother?

Dean's head ached, his body, throbbed, his lungs filled with clean air with each gulping breath he took. The pulsing in his veins grew louder as he brought his hands to his ears, hoping to drown out the sound. What was the earth piercing sound? Flashes of memories singed his brain and he jumped to his feet. Sam wasn't anywhere to be found; not because of the serial tow trucker, but because Dean had died. Dean had been in Hell. It was all coming back to him; Ruby being possessed by Lilith, ordering the Hell hounds to get him, his chest being ripped to shreds. Calling out for Sam as he was skewered amid barbed wires, hanging aloft the burning embers of Hell itself.

He had to find Sam. He was alive; he had no reason why; but he knew Sam would. But before he could take another step forward, he was standing outside a familiar site, Bobby's old place. He tried to call out, but he had no voice. The older man, drew his rifle out, and chased Dean, cursing the devil himself for torturing an old man with an apparition of Dean. Bobby turned a corner and Dean was gone.

Dean was running but it was now night and he was standing in front of an old abandoned building, flames flickered in the windows, shrill shrieks could be heard, as well as gun shots. He crouched down, behind a car, and leant against its cool exterior; it was his car. He stood up, waiting for Sam, and he saw his brother, bloodied and beaten, but alive. Sam stood motionless as he rubbed at his eyes; that couldn't have been Dean. Dean just nodded, thinking, _That'a'boy, Sam_, and vanished.

He _was_ alive, wasn't he? Or was he ripped from Hell and given one last chance to see those he loved, before he was sent on another journey, to, God knows where? Dean laughed to himself; God? Who was he kidding? There wasn't a God. But if there wasn't a God, why was Dean back in front of his own grave, making his way to an abandoned gas station, where he found his mouth and throat so dry, he pillaged the refrigerated coolers of a water bottle and crammed down some chocolate snacks? Dean found a bathroom, turned on the faucet and washed his face. He stared at himself in the mirror. He examined his cheekbones; he dragged a hand down his face; no scars, no wounds. His mind flashed back to the night he died, and he lifted his t-shirt, revealing a well-chiseled, yet unblemished chest. How could that be?

"I gotta call Sam," Dean had found his voice. He ransacked the cash register, pocketed the cash, and found a payphone. Sam's number was no longer in service. Slamming the phone back onto its cradle, Dean fished in his pocket for more change and called Bobby. He was so relieved to hear the man's voice, but was shocked when Bobby didn't sound as thrilled as he was.

"Call me again and I'll hunt you down and kill you ma'self, you sick sonofabitch."

"Huh," Dean scoffed, "well okay then."

He heard a car pulling up and he just shook his head in awe. From what he could tell, it was a '76 Camaro, orange racing stripes down it's sleek, yet, aged, white exterior. He was pretty sure he could hear a faint hum of some Bob Dylan classic, but what mesmerized him more, was the fact that the petite driver had pulled out a camera and was taking his photo. He watched, as the young woman got out of her car, its door creaked and sent a flock of crows flying into the west, and she began to run towards him, the camera in one hand, the other waving him down. She shouted his name, over, and over, but he was unsure of whom she was; she looked familiar, then again, he was supposed to be burning away eternally in Hell. She could have been a Trickster, or some delusion. Dean did the only thing he could think of; which was out of character for a Winchester; he ran. He ran until he cleared the store and her trailing footsteps disappeared. That wasn't the only time she appeared, Dean remembered. She had shown up again, only days before, this time, driving _his_ car, AC/DC blaring, _'If you want blood'…_

Dean tapped his foot into the dirt, singing along, "You got it." Anger was brewing in his veins.

She sat in _his _driver's seat, with the same goddamn camera.

"Of all the things he could have done with my car," Dean mumbled, "he sold it to a chick?"

"The ungrateful sonofabitch." Dean grumbled, watching as the young woman argued on a cell phone, switching between taking his photo, to yelling into her phone. Dean's ears picked up on one single word and it brought tears to his eyes; she had just yelled out his brother's name. Sam.

_**Present Day.**_

Dean hung around the abandoned lot, unsure of the things he had been seeing. With no way of reaching out, he hung around the abandoned store, read some of the smut magazines, filled up on snack cakes and caffeine, and organized the shelves in alphabetical order. Yeah, he thought to himself, I must still be in Hell. There was an abandoned car outside in the deserted lot, but he couldn't hotwire it. There wasn't a car on earth that he couldn't get running, yet here he was, on_ 'earth'_, and the poor excuse of a car wouldn't turn over. He nodded again, looking out towards the highway,

"Definitely Hell." He was smug. "Or something like it."

He made his way back to the lonely cross and stood sentry at it, wondering what exactly was going on. Flashes of memories poured into his head, some ungodly, disharmonious, ear bleeding howl invaded his ears, every now and then, but nothing made sense. Nothing. If none of that made sense, then what he was seeing now, in front of his very own eyes, were three vehicles, coming in from three different directions. His brother, Sam, was driving the Impala, slowly, coming in from the North. Bobby's rickety old car was kicking up dust from the East, and that chick, in that amazing Camaro was slowly idling from the West. Dean wasn't sure if he was imagining things or not, but there was only one way to find out. He walked towards _his_ car, _his_ brother, and all three vehicles began to encircle the surrounding area, pouring what appeared to be large grade bags of salt as they sealed in the area.


	7. Chapter 7

*Author's Note: Apparently, I've confused some of my readers with the last chapter from Dean's perspective. Yes, it was a memory, and yes he flashed from his memory of one of his skirmishes with Sam, to the present; waking from Hell, in a pine box. So he is disoriented to say the least. It was based on my own imagination and that promo shot we were given from TPTB. I had no idea how Dean was going to come back and this is how I imagined it. This, I believe is the conclusion. I don't know what anyone expects or hopes to have happen, but I have an idea and I'm sticking to it. Thanks for all the reviews and to those who simply added me, it's a boost to the morale. =) Thanks.

Chapter 7

Kenzie finally unloaded her trunk with the bags of salt she picked up from a local store, courtesy of _Frank's Feed._ Dropping one at the rear of Dean's car and another at Bobby's pickup, she left one for herself. If nothing else came from what they were about to do, at least she got in some weight training. She pocketed a bag of water balloons, knowing damn well, Bobby wasn't going to get a kick out of her idea, but it was better to be safe, than sorry; especially in their line of defense. Tripping up the steps to her own cottage, Kenzie cursed out loud, and threw open the door. Inside, Sam and Bobby were mulling over some papers and all was quiet; too quiet.

"Hey fellas," Kenzie huffed, "sorry it took so long, but…"

"Took long, my rear-end," Bobby grumbled, "you've been sitting in that mass grave of granite you call a driveway for over a half hour."

Sam looked up to see Kenzie's reaction and he couldn't hold back a small chuckle.

"Seriously, Kenz," Sam walked up to her and put a gangly arm around her petite frame, "we're hunters, we know when we're being spied on."

Kenzie elbowed him in the gut to which Sam exhaled a _humph_ and she tussled his hair. Grinning from ear to ear, she teased the two men that crowded her small, already claustrophobic, living room.

"Just wanted you two to kiss and make up," she shrugged, "didn't know it'd turn into an episode of Dr. Phil."

Sam's mouth dropped into an exaggerated O and Bobby shook his head,

"Great, another smart ass," Bobby pulled on the brim of his hat.

"Speaking of smart asses," he rose from the chair, his burly mass of tans and plaids, "we doin' this or what?"

"Sam fill you in?" Kenzie asked him receiving the answer loud and clear as Bobby exited the frame of the room and had one hand on the doorknob. She exhaled _I guess that's a yes_, and waited on Sam to gather his things. He walked up behind her, closed the front door over, and together they made way to their designated cars. She removed the bag of water balloons and halfheartedly waved them under Sam's nose.

"Think Dean'll be in a playful mood?"

Sam shuffled his weight uneasily as he stared at the packet of rainbow colored levity that she held in her hands. His hands, however, were shoved far down into his jean pockets and his hair, a shaggy mess, fell into his crestfallen face.

"I don't know what kind of mood he'll be in," he slowly removed his hands from his pockets and Kenzie reached hers out to grasp them. Sam lifted her tiny body up, so that they were nose to nose, Eskimo kissed her, and set her down on the hood of her car. She took his head into her hands and pulled him down to her chest, where his lengthy torso was immediately halved and now eye level with Kenzie.

"Sam," she whispered, looking over his head, "whatever happens, we'll get through it."

"We aren't goin' anywhere."

"I don't know about you," Bobby hollered over the kick start of his truck's engine, "but I'm 'bout ready to head over to that field."

Kenzie tossed the bag of balloons to Bobby and countered, "First you gotta bless us some water."

"You ain't serious, girl?" Bobby eyed her with a look that could only be summarized by a countrified, Idjit.

"Serious as a heart attack," she shifted from Sam's grasp and hopped off the hood of her car. She walked to the hose on the side of her house and began to fill up a bucket. She reached into her pocket and found a string of rosaries from her mother and handed them to a sour Bobby who left his engine running and his door open.

Bobby took the rosaries and looked to Sam, remembering the last time he blessed some water that ultimately labored the advances of Lilith's swarm of demons the night they lost Dean. He began the blessing of the water by invoking a Latin phrase and dipped the rosaries in and out of the water, "In nomeni Patri et Fili Spiritus Sanct," and Kenzie crossed herself, something she hadn't done in ages. _In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen. _The water began to boil as Bobby recited the incantation for a sixth time and dropped the beads into the water, the tiny baubles sunk to the bottom of the bucket, the silver Crucifix catching the last of the light from the setting sun. "That should do it," Bobby adjusted his cap and ripped open the bags of balloons. He shook his head and thought again, handing them over to the kids. He laughed to himself, _kids_, they were far from it, but water balloons weren't his style. He reached into his breast pocket of his down filled jacket and removed a flask. He poured the remainder of the bitter liquid out onto the grass and dunk it into the bucket, tiny bubbles rising to the top, as it filled up. He twisted the cap back on and nodded to Sam. "I'll stick with this," he winked and walked to the car.

He watched as Sam and Kenzie began to fill up the balloons, taking time and ease, while they tied tiny knots into the latex. He reached into his glove compartment and retrieved a small bottle of whiskey. Twisted off the top and took a swig. He muttered a prayer and pointed the bottle to the sky. "If this works, yeah, well…I'll start believin' again."

Grabbing a few of the balloons, Sam and Kenzie each walked to their individual cars, looked over at one another and nodded. They didn't have to speak, because words were useless at a time like this. Kenzie already knew omitting the fact that she had seen Dean from Sam was one lie too many, promising him that they'll get through it, was a stretch, if anything. It ached her to know that Dean was only miles away but trapped. Trapped as if he couldn't leave his grave; trapped as if he didn't want to. Why were his attempts futile? They drove to the abandoned site, dark clouds were being strewn together overhead, the swirls of gray and abysmal black, circling above the very spot where Dean was standing. His eyes transfixed on the oncoming vehicles, the wind that had been blowing intensely seemed to cease altogether, creating an eerie silence and stillness. The chill in the air enveloped the three as they lowered their windows and revved their engines. Sam watched intensely at his brother who looked to each of the drivers as they turned their engines over, one after another. Dean's eyes fixed on his brother and tilted his head, as if to say, _What in the hell are you doin'? _

And that's when Dean noticed, the flow of white crystals, encircling him from three directions; culminating towards the northern front, Bobby's truck, Dean's car being driven by his little brother, and Lara…Dean put a hand to his head, almost slapping himself as if to say, _That's who that was!_ A small smirk appeared on his lips, and Kenzie could have sworn he recognized her, finally. The entrapped him in a large ass circle of salt. Of course they did. He wouldn't had taken any less of a precaution if it were any of them in his shoes. They each exited their vehicles and began to slowly walk towards Dean. Sam held tightly onto the grip of Ruby's knife, his one hand behind his back. Kenzie tossed a balloon up and down in her hand, a rifle loaded with rock salt bullets, planted firmly between her shoulder blade and neck. Bobby too, held a shotgun, his two fleshy hands gripped tightly onto the barrel and neck of his precious artillery. Sam looked towards Kenzie and nodded, his order wordless. Kenzie pitched the balloon.

Dean staggered back as the balloon hit him straight between the eyes. The water dripped down his clean shaven face, not a scar, or burn mark visible. He wiped his hand and pinched his nose; shaking the water off.

"Huh," Bobby murmured, "that _was _pretty effective." He tapped his breast pocket where the holy water rested against his heart.

Sam revealed Ruby's knife but held its blade downward and Kenzie planted her gun into the dirt, barrel down. Dean's eyes rounded with anxiety and his lips parted, slowly. Sam inched forward and reached out to touch Dean's arm. Half expecting his fingers to eek through his flesh, Sam's breath caught in his throat, as his fingers jammed into rock, solid, flesh and bone. Dean's lips curled up slightly and a chuckle sounded from the pit of his stomach to the vast opening of his mouth.

"Really, Sammy," Dean grinned, "it's about Goddamned time."

"I about damn near lost my mind, thinkin' I was seein' things."

Sam turned to Kenzie and Bobby and they couldn't help but sigh with relief. _They_ weren't crazy. _They_ weren't seeing unexplained things; they were standing face to face with a miracle.


End file.
